After driving circles around North Portland—trying initially to make it to an Asthanga Yoga class on Williams and then, realizing I would not make it on time, deciding to tuck into a warm café and write to fill the pre-Elsa hours (we are meeting at 8:30pm at the Doug Fir, where Ages and Ages is playing)—I have at last arrived, landed in my sit bones at the Secret Society, a cozy little bar on Russell that is lit entirely by candles, crowded with vintage books and wine bottles, not to mention an elegant brand of hipsters. I can’t help wishing I was the dark-haired woman at the far end of the bar sharing drinks and dinner with a cutie in a plaid button-down, a hybrid of Jeff Buckley (circa “Grace”) and Jake Ryan of Sixteen Candles. Then again, it is quite nice to be the anonymous girl drinking a glass of Cotes de Rhone and typing away in the corner.
There is no doubt about it: I have a highly idealized, starry-eyed view of Portlandia, “where all the hot girls wear glasses.” As a young woman, I found it depressing and sluggish, mossy and morose, but now that I have lived away for so long, I find it wildly charming. I dig the burly beards and bicycles, the purposefully disheveled hair and thick-rimmed glasses, the reclaimed wood and recycled clothing, the chicken-coup and urban farm craze, and of course, the proclivity for bird, gnome, and mushroom memorabilia. It is fun to laugh at oneself, to see one’s life and passions in caricature. My sister Casey is convinced that I am attracted to men who look like Jesus, and after recently visiting with two of my ex-boyfriends (Bicycle Jesus and Surfer Jesus), I support her hypothesis. Bicycle Jesus’ curls have gone gray, but not much else has changed; he still makes me feel alive, he still makes me laugh and think. Surfer Jesus has a serious beard these days, but it frames the same imploring, sparkling eyes. He still knows how to build a real fire. They both do.
I hate to say it, but San Francisco men don’t do it for me. I can’t handle the idea of dating someone who waxes his eyebrows and doesn’t know how to (or want to) read a trail map. I’ve recently latched on to the idea of moving to Vermont, but suspect that this urge is related to my hankering for good, honest men—and also know that I wouldn’t last too long in that climate.
“Just go to Europe, Heid. No detours.” This is the message I am getting from all of my closest friends, those who know me and have been listening to me sing the praises of Lady Europa over the years. I may well do that, but in the meantime, I want to fully embody and live inside of the life that is presenting itself right now, the life that is in Portland, in Boulder, and in San Francisco. I’ll be here for three more days, celebrating with and loving on family, and will then fly to Colorado, where I’ll ring in the New Year with my mountain family, my dearest friends. There are stories to be shared, tea to be poured and sipped, old crushes to visit, new babies to coo at, and majestic lakes and trails to be worshipped … I am excited, thrilled that this is the choice I have made.
Let me correct that: I am thrilled that these are the choices I have made, the places and people I have gravitated towards and fallen for. I have been subject to doubt and regret over the years, but in rare moments like these—when I feel part of a secret, knowing society—I trust that we are all somehow guided, somehow on track, and somehow held in love. Who knows, maybe we’re held by a hot, bed-
headed goddess in thick rimmed glasses … I’d like that.
